


Never Have I Ever

by Jolien



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: M/M, Mild Sexual Content, of doom, the morning after, waking up in uncomfortable places
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 05:09:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15405672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolien/pseuds/Jolien
Summary: Waking up naked in the woods sounds like the start of a beautiful... something!





	Never Have I Ever

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: wanderingsmith

Goodnight woke, warm and comfortably naked under a rough wool blanket, to fingertips drawing circles over the slope of his rib cage. Goosebumps rose behind them, shivering on his skin, and he burrowed deeper into the crook of his arm. His head felt stuffed and floating and he wasn’t ready to be awake yet. Also, someone seemed to have stolen his pillow.

A hand splayed over his hip, sliding lower to squeeze his ass. Then a tall, slender and very male body rolled him and pinned him down, and Goodnight’s grumble of protest died in his throat. He loved it when people figured out quickly what he liked, and judging by the tenderness in his lower body, plenty he liked had taken place last night.

The scratch of a beard accompanied all the light kisses the stranger peppered down Goodnight’s neck and chest, teasing a nipple with his wicked tongue before moving lower until is mouth touched the first coarse hairs and he paused.

How could Goodnight refuse such an offer?

He pushed a hand into the man’s short, soft strands, a little damp with sweat. “Yes, please.”

He expected a clumsy moment of fishing for a condom and then the tearing sound of plastic – definitely not the hot mouth that slid over him without hesitation, slick and bare. Goodnight gasped in surprise, eyes flying open. Blazing orange-red flooded his vision, cut open in the middle like a rip in space-time where light fell through, and framed by a dozen gnarly, shadowed fingers.

He blinked at the rip in the ceiling. “Are we in a tent?”

The man drew off with a wet pop. “Huh? Guess so?”

He had an accent. Goodnight knew that accent. He didn’t remember much of last night, so they must have been talking for a while for him to be able to place it even with the first painful laps of a headache against his temples. What he did remember was feeling a little tipsy at a nice bar. With liquid courage at his back and trying for a sly grin, he had approached the cute stranger. “Ahoy, tall, dark and Mexican.”

The man had shot him a tiger-sharp grin. “Don’t judge a man by his t-shirt, white boy.”

“But it’s such a pretty t-shirt,” Goodnight had drawled, coyly running a thumb down between his pecs, stroking the eagle. “And you wear it so well.”

The man’s eyes glowed, then, his dark gaze sluicing down Goodnight’s body, and the hunger in them made him smolder inside. He pulled back but didn’t retreat: he’d always had a thing for exotic _and_ dangerous. Instead, he nodded at the man’s crystal-clear drink. “I watched you drain two glasses of that and you’re still standing. Either you’re really good at holding your liquor, or that’s _not_ tequila.”

A slow smirk spread over the man’s face, even as he rolled his eyes. He leaned in. “Why don’t you try and tell me?”

The memories cut off then, like a ripped video cassette. Goodnight tried firing up his last surviving brain cell for more information, but came up empty. He didn’t even remember the guy’s name, much less how they ended up in a tent.

Now that he was aware of their location, the ground started to dig uncomfortably into his kidneys. Damp cold seemed to suddenly seep in around the blanket’s edges.

Goodnight shifted, right out from under Mr. Accent’s talented tongue, who made a questioning noise and grabbed his thighs to pull him back, but Goodnight just kept on rolling – until he bumped face-first into another bulk of solid, naked chest.

Goodnight maybe shrieked a little.

The man belonging to the spectacular set of abs currently in his view startled awake and flew into action, quick as a lightning flash. Red tent fabric whizzed past Goodnight and then an arm wrenched under his chin, the glorious chest now pressing against his back.

“What the fuck,” he wheezed.

The pressure on his windpipe increased.

Now would probably be a good time to shake off the shock and start struggling. Goodnight struggled.

That seemed to shake the man from his stupor; or however one wanted to call that state just after waking, that made one prone to choking people on sight. He pushed Goodnight off and onto Mr. Accent’s knees, because he was right behind him and the tent was too small for three grown men. Especially with two of them built like Calvin Klein models. Goodnight had already got a good feel of Mr. Accent’s muscles, but the new guy was on a wholly different level. He had the kind of body that spoke of waking up before dawn every day to sweat blood for a few hours and a diet consisting of nothing but protein shakes. He was also staring down at it as if seeing himself for the first time. “Why am I naked?”

“Well, when two people meet in a gay bar,” Mr. Accent began, apparently having a death wish because Mr. Abs’ gaze whipped up to brutally execute him and he kept right on talking, “And the mood strikes them to get a little frisky, clothes become a… problem.”

Mr. Abs frowned at his crotch with a disconcertingly murderous expression. “Where are my clothes?”, he demanded and oh, his voice got really raspy when he wanted something.

Goodnight shivered. He didn’t get much more time to enjoy it, because a realization hit him hard and sudden. There were _two_ guys in his bed – okay, tent. _Two!_ Stuff like this only ever happened in adult movies, or cheesy rom-coms, or interesting murder mysteries, and _somehow_ , his damned brain had managed to black out his first ever threesome in an alcohol-induced coma.

His mood soured. He sat up, trying to look around for his own clothes. Pain whacked his skull like an iron skillet and he clutched his head with a groan. “C-curse you, alcohol!”

This day officially sucked.

Someone patted his shoulder. It was probably not Mr. Abs.

Goodnight squinted from his curled-up position. He saw only them, the single blanket they’d fit under against the laws of physics, and the plastic tent floor. There was not a single garment in sight. He felt a slight panic set in. “Oh, fuck.”

The petting intensified. “White boy, this is a tent.”

“That’s kinda my problem,” Goodnight hissed.

“Which means,” Mr. Accent continued, as if Goodnight hadn’t spoken, “There is a campground. Other people.”

Goodnight shot him a horrified look. “We’re nude! We can not go out there with nothing on. No!”

Mr Accent rolled his eyes. “They might know what happened.”

He grabbed the blanket and tugged it out from under his companions before either could stop him.

“You mean they saw us?! Hey,” Goodnight protested.

“Give me a minute.”

Mr. Accent wrapped the blanket around his midsection and opened the tent flap.

With a shriek, Goodnight flattened himself against the flimsy wall, squinting against the light, while Mr. Abs seemed frozen in mortification.

The tent flap fell closed, leaving them both naked in the red-tinted gloom. Literally.

Goodnight felt his cheeks heat, and did what he always did when embarrassed: he started talking. “So...”

Mr. Abs’ eyes narrowed, which was mostly terrifying, but also a little bit thrilling, like being hunted by a sexy panther.

Goodnight dropped his gaze, which was not the smartest idea, considering, yeah, naked. Holy hell, the rigorous training regime did not have a detrimental effect in that department. It was very, uh, very distracting.

Mr. Abs growled.

Goodnight’s face was slowly turning into a steam cooker. “S-sorry.”

Thankfully, Mr. Accent shoved his face inside at just that moment, saving him from more awkwardness. “We _may_ have a problem.”

Goodnight gladly grasped the dangling straw. “Nothing, my friend, can be more of a problem than the one we’re already having.”

“See for yourself.”

Mr. Accent ducked out again.

Cautiously, Goodnight pried the tent flap open so he could stick his head through. The first thing he saw were the trees: tall and straight, thick-leaved, with sprawling canopies you don’t see in carefully groomed city vegetation. Around their massive trunks the shrub grew thick, spreading over winding roots and only thickening in the distance to swallow all light. Not that there was much light to begin with, because the clouds bunching over their heads were thick and gloomy and looked about as friendly as Goodnight’s grandmother on a bad day. That evil witch. Closer to the tent, Mr. Accent’s bare feet sunk into a bed of dried moss and brown leaves. There was nothing in sight except wide, bustling nature and three pairs of shoes.

Goodnight gaped. “We’re in the middle of the woods,” he said dumbly. The words, somehow, seemed to make it more real. He crawled out on all fours and stood, now unconcerned of his nakedness because there was no one here to fucking see it. “You pitched your tent in an effing forest? That’s not even legal! I think!” Goodnight’s eyes widened. “Oh my Gandalf, are you a serial killer? Are you two accomplices? Oh no, are they ever going to find my body?”

Mr. Accent started. “Whoa, white boy, calm down! First, I don’t know that guy –”

“Wait,” Goodnight interrupted. Pain sizzled at the back of his neck. “So he’s not your boyfriend?”

“No,” Mr. Abs said, scaring the shit out of Goodnight because holy fuck, that guy moved quietly. “Stop shouting.”

“I thought he was yours,” said Mr. Accent.

“No, he–,” Goodnight frowned. “And you still molested me while I was half asleep?”

Mr. Accent shrugged. “You were into it.”

Goodnight winced, the throb behind his temple getting stronger. He should probably calm down.

“Second, that is not even my tent, genius, so it’s not my fault it’s here.”

There went the calm.

Goodnight whipped to face Mr. Accent. “What?!” He flinched immediately. “Oww!”

“Stop shouting,” Mr. Abs snarled. In the daylight, he didn’t look half as awake as he had in the tent. There were bags under his perpetually narrowed eyes and a few tight, pained lines around his mouth.

Goodnight lowered his voice in sympathy. He knew what ‘lethally hungover’ looked like. “Let’s skip the questions about how we got here and where the owner of that incredibly leaky mobile home is and focus our combined energy on getting out of here, yeah?”

“Actually,” said Mr. Accent. “I like it here.”

Goodnight felt a stab of irritation. “Then stay. I, for one, need a coffee. And sleep, and an aspirin. Maybe not in that order, though any order would be greatly appreciated. That tent is shockingly badly stocked with _anything_ a human organism needs to survive. Whoever lives here must either be some kind of super soldier, or an elf.”

“An... elf,” said Mr. Abs, slowly, like he was testing the word out on his tongue.

“You know, Lord of the Rings? Legolas?”, Goodnight tried.

He got a blank stare in return.

Goodnight sighed. “At least it’s warm, so we won’t freeze while we’re looking. And look, with these three perfectly fitting pairs of shoes we won’t even get bitten by digger wasps or whatever crawls around in a forest. This could be much worse, right? It could be raining.”

Thunder boomed in the distance.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Goodnight rubbed his temples. This needed to be over, sooner rather than later. “You, Mexican. Give me the blanket.”

“Why?”

“Because you had it the last ten minutes, now it’s my turn.”

Mr. Accent unwrapped himself and, with a flat expression, handed the blanket to Mr. Abs.

Goodnight bristled. “Fine, be that way. Now, left or right?”

“The real world is not like a TV screen, white boy. It has more than two directions.”

“Right it is!”

-

They found the road before they found their clothes. Technically it wasn’t a road, just a gravel path, divided by a stripe of grass, which was a sure indicator that despite its size – or lack thereof – it had once been made for cars, or at least trucks. A hand-drawn sign pointed them to a scenic spot, inviting visitors to a summer picnic, which had probably been their destination last night. The road looped around, leading them almost back to where they came from.

“We should have gone left,” Mr. Accent grunted, when they discovered their clothes, bundled-up on the rack of an outdoor grill filled with ash-muddied water. “You cost us two hours, white boy.”

“Shut up,” Goodnight grumbled. His hangover had grown to the size of a country, and his shoulders were stiffening from the warmth-that-no-longer-felt-warm, despite it being his turn with the blanket. Even breathing was starting to feel unpleasant.

Mr. Abs’ was the fastest to get dressed. He pulled on his black socks and pants like his life depended on it. Then he extracted his sweater from the grill – black with a stylized paw print on the front – that came out dripping wet. He pulled it on, cringed once, and checked his pockets. He unearthed a wallet and a smartphone with a crack in the upper left corner that went all the way through the middle before dissolving into splinters. The screen was smeared with mud. When he pressed the button on the side, nothing happened.

Goodnight fumbled with his t-shirt and hesitantly held it out. “Um. You wanna have mine?”

“No.” Mr. Abs grunted before stalking off, following the ‘Parking’ sign.

Goodnight’s hackles rose. Okay, his reeking party-shirt wasn’t a functioning new phone, but he didn’t need to be _rude_ about it. “What the hell is your problem? I was trying to be _nice_.”

The man didn’t even turn. In revenge, Goodnight ogled his perfect ass without regret.

Mr. Accent snickered. “White boy.”

Goodnight whipped around. Well, slowly turned, anything else was off the cards. “What?”

Mr. Accent held up his red, green and white tee from yesterday. Only now, it had a rip down the front. “You went at me like an animal last night.” His eyes sparkled at Goodnight. “Wanna do it again, sometime?”

“No!”, Goodnight balked. He yanked his pants on.

“Didn’t you like it?”

The raspy lilt to his voice made something tighten in Goodnight’s belly. He flushed. “I- I don’t do encores.”

Technically that wasn’t a lie. He just hadn’t had the opportunity yet. His thoughts flashed back to earlier, the possessive grip on his ass, just like he liked it. He swallowed. “And, and, I doubt it was even that good. In a fucking tent.”

Mr. Accent laughed out loud.

In the distance, the rumble of an engine started up. Apparently Mr. Abs had found the parking lot. And had no problem with leaving them here.

“Well, in case you change your mind,” Mr. Accent chuckled, shoulders still quivering, “You have my number.”

Surprised, Goodnight turned. The other man was closer than he expected, almost close enough to feel the heat that rose off his body, and he wasn’t looking at Goodnight’s face. His gaze was fixed on something lower.

Goodnight craned his neck and there it was, right over his ass in thick black sharpie.

He buried his burning head in his hands. “I hope I don’t have to see you ever again.”


End file.
